


Repairs Pending

by polysyndeta



Series: Triumvirate [1]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Fix-It, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Prompt Fill, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 19:52:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3459884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polysyndeta/pseuds/polysyndeta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eggsy goes looking for JB and finds something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Repairs Pending

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: _Eggsy walks in on Harry and Merlin having sex and decides to watch for a while (while jerking off?)._
> 
>  
> 
> _Bonus if they eventually notice him (or were aware of him the entire time and just kept going) and ask him to join them._
> 
>  
> 
> The Mildly Dubious Consent tag is pretty much explained by the prompt.

So he knows he’s got JB to blame, or thank, or - whateverthefuck, he doesn’t know.

His dog is well fuckin’ trained, alright? Sit, heel, play dead, roll over - check, check, check and _check_. What JB’s sometimes shit at, though, is just lying around. So when Eggsy hasn’t lifted his head from the book he’s been reading (immersion Spanish, ahead of a job in Madrid) for three hours, the pug just takes himself off for a walk.

But Eggsy’s not all that bothered, ‘cause he always ends up in the same place. Whenever they’re at HQ, JB _always_ gravitates back to the candidates’ dorm, because - well, it’s his childhood home, innit? As measured in dog years, anyway. He’ll get in there somehow (fuck knows how he keeps managing it, JB’s infiltration scores’re probably higher than his) and when Eggsy goes looking for him he’ll find him curled up in his old bed, doing that whistly snore thing that’s either adorable or drives him mental depending on what he’s up to while it’s happening.

It’s not like the dorm’s in use that much. Not right now. There’s a few more empty chairs since the V-Day clusterfuck. Percival took Arthur’s and Eggsy’s taking Percival’s and Harry’s still Galahad - 

(Oh. Yeah. That happened. Eggsy didn’t exactly cop to what it meant when he said _Harry’s dead_ to Arthur and got a clipped _Galahad is dead_ in return, not at the time. Their first warning was a bill arriving at Savile Row from a hospital in Kentucky, like, a fucking week before their actual patient washed up at the door.)

\- but they’re casting the net out to their international offices for recruitment. Fresh blood. Progression. Eggsy’s only a little smug that he was so fuckin’ amazing at saving the world that he’s triggered a paradigm shift.

So he gives it another half an hour before he goes looking. Checks the little debriefing room first - the room on the other side of the two-way mirror, or ‘the room with the oxygen in it’, depending on your experiences - because it’s closer and he can tell instantly if JB’s made it to the dorm yet.

He hasn’t, so far as he can tell. 

Room’s not empty, though.

Merlin’s sitting on the end of a bed - _his_ bed, even though he’s never sleeping there again. 

Jumper rucked up, shirt untucked, fly open. 

Legs open to accommodate the fact that _Harry fucking Hart_ is kneeling between them. 

Not a thread of his suit out of place.

Mouth stretched wide and red around the girth of Merlin’s prick.

Fuckin’ room suddenly don’t have that much oxygen in it any more.

And Eggsy knows - he fucking _knows_ \- a gentleman is discreet. A gentleman would turn around and walk away and go and find his dog. A gentleman doesn’t stand at the pane of glass, breathing against it in desperate covetousness like Eggsy did when he was seven and his mum walked him past Hamleys. He doesn’t forget how to process anything that isn’t the sight of his mentor blowing his teacher like he’s at it to pay the rent.

Eggsy doesn’t realise the heavy breathing he can hear is anyone’s but his, not until he hears Merlin’s voice from a speaker over the mirror:

_”That is just lovely, Harry.”_

He sounds all low and soft, brogue broken down into a gentle growling, if that’s even a thing. He pets Harry’s hair and it moves thick and loose against his fingers, free of the £50-a-pop hair oil he uses to keep it in place.

Harry’s head bobs slowly, hands braced on Merlin’s calves. Eggsy’s too fucking far away to see the good stuff, showers and that are all in the way, but his mind fills in the detail. The hollowing of his cheeks, the wet of his lips, the flex of the muscles in his hands as his fingers tighten against the wool weave of Merlin’s trousers.

_”Jus’ like that. Just a little - Christ. Your fuckin’ tongue. Be the death of me, you will.”_

There’s a sort of thick, groaning sound almost instantly echoed by Merlin and Eggsy realises it’s Harry, _moaning_ for Merlin’s cock in his mouth and his hand in his hair. If he wasn’t hard before (he was) he’s _aching_ with it now. He fumbles down to his jeans, unzipping with a rasp that sounds as loud as a yell, then spits and shoves his hand into his boxers as if he’s scared by the thought of coming untouched. His prick jumps against his palm and he presses his brow against the cold glass, turning his head very slightly to one side so his panting won’t fog up the glass too bad.

_”Faster now, Harry. You can take it, aye? Yeah.”_

He sees the shift of hair between Merlin’s fingers when they tighten against Harry’s scalp. He sees the exact moment when he stops just touching and starts _steering_ , and in his peripheral vision he sees Harry’s hand drop between his thighs to grab at himself through his suit. It’s too much. There’s too much to look at, and fuck if he’s lost all capacity to assess a situation strategically. He’s dry-mouthed and stupid with lust. He wants to be Harry (knees sore, lips cracking); he wants to be Merlin (thighs flexing, prick leaking). Most of all he wants to be himself (the best person to be, as he was taught): wedged between them, sitting on Merlin’s thick cock and emptying his balls into Harry’s waiting mouth.

 _Harry_. Harry’s really going for it now, fucking himself onto Merlin, and the sound of it is fuckin’ criminal. Wet, and sloppy, and _visceral_ in a way that he’s never seen in his mentor before. The slap of his own hand against his cock is too loud but he _has_ to come, he's dying for it.

It’s over suddenly. Merlin’s knees spread yet wider; his back arches; he lets out a string of curses in a guttural version of his own accent that makes Eggsy feel lightheaded. 

Not so much that he doesn’t see the ripple of Harry’s throat as he swallows.

It’s the faint _pop_ of Merlin’s cock falling from Harry’s mouth that has him sobbing, painting the mirror with streaks of spunk. He feels hollowed out and satisfied and deeply ashamed, and it has him sinking to his knees and just breathing slowly against the stain of his own voyeurism ’til the two other Kingsmen have gone.

He cleans up as best he can (it’s not like he carries wet wipes if he’s not babysitting), and on his way toward the door he hears a bark and turns around. Peers through the mirror. JB’s sitting under one of the chairs clustered around the TV, and Eggsy’s irrationally fuckin’ furious that his fuckin’ dog had a better fuckin’ view than he did.

Fuck.

He circles around to reclaim his pug, and once he’s gathered the little dipshit into his arms and straightened he glances across the room, fully expecting to encounter the reflection of a horrible pervert.

Except he doesn’t, because it’s not even a mirror right now.

It’s just glass, with a handwritten Post-It on the frame reading _Repairs Pending._

**Author's Note:**

> So, fulfilled the first part. The second I might be getting to later if this expands into a series, because hello new OT3.


End file.
